Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (2006)

While analyzing David Cronenberg's Rabid (see Revenge of the Phallic Woman) is when I first contemplated the idea of interpenetration as a solution to the gender paradigm. If you remember Marilyn Chambers' character from the film, you will probably remember the phallic syringe concealed in her armpit and its usefulness in re-imagining the porn star as a sexual predator. Although it seemed obvious to me that this phallic appendage represented the monstrosity of men, I was surprised to come across a plethora of contrary interpretations from various feminist authors. Anchored in mostly paternalistic, early psychoanalytical theories, these interpretations strangely vied to criticize Rabid for its insensitivity toward women when it is actually akin to a feminist manifesto. The film's incredible lenience toward the innocent protagonist-turned-monster (named Rose, no less), its insistence on the folly of male scientists (a typical Cronenbergian motif) and the punitive nature of the murders committed by Rose, all of these elements should lead one to a unequivocal interpretation thereof. But they don't, since psychoanalysis is now desperately impregnable in its pragmatic use by biased interest groups.

Evidently, the horror genre is a popular target for feminist psychoanalysis. Understood as a primarily "chauvinist" genre by many people, it is either dismissed categorically as a lesser art form, or intellectually broken down into bare components, which are then dipped in acidic verbose. Unfortunately, the vast majority of its detractors, in their ideological zeal, fail to see the most obvious, most revealing aspects thereof.  If we're to trust scholars, then every knife ever used in slasher films is an expression of phallic violence, which itself makes female empowerment subservient to that violence (with the heroine's appropriation of the killer's weaponry). Hence, psychoanalysis would tend to prove the secondary importance of women within the genre. But that is the biggest lie of all. Aside from the obvious fact that slasher films systematically star female heroines, these films also systematically showcase impotent antagonists and useless male protectors who die without a fuss. And while the male killer could be said to be the real star of the film, he is usually subservient to the survivor girl for whom he exists only as a catalyst toward self-determination.

Psychoanalytical appreciation of David
Cronenberg's Rabid is very problematic.

This all-encompassing thesis on slasher films might appear dubious to some, but it is quite well-defended by Scott Glosserman's genre gem Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon, which manages to successfully integrate elements of the horror, the documentary and the romantic comedy genres to create a highly complex manifesto on the power of symbols. Basking in psychoanalytical savvy, the film effortlessly deconstructs the slasher sub-genre by positing a series of codes inherent to its construction, codes that might appear obvious to the seasoned horror fan, but which are also cleverly used to help awaken the female protagonist to the idea of the that genre as an essential expression of social angst. Hence, the central discussion about phallic and yonic symbolism is cleverly used to reveal the subtle interplay of gender referents hiding behind the crude representations of sexes, which the average critic will cite as a shortcoming. Even if the film was merely an analytical exercise in appraising horror cinema, then it would be great enough. But Glosserman also delves quite brilliantly in the codes inherent to the documentary genre as well, articulating his narrative around the ethics of non-intervention. In doing so, he proves to be a surprisingly savvy film scholar and practitioner. But what is perhaps his biggest achievement is how he manages to create an absolutely symbiotic, violently passionate love story at the center of it all, one that shatters the conventional conceptions of the slasher sub-genre like so many wooden poles caught in a nuclear blast.

The film opens with live shots from famous slasher locales where tragic massacres have occurred throughout the years (Crystal Lake, Haddonfield, and Elm Street, where muscular Kane Hodder scurries inside his house as the camera approaches). That's right. Behind the Mask is set in a world where supernatural murderers are real, casting a tangible shadow over their victims and prompting uptight journalism student Taylor Gentry and her unsightly crew of helpers to investigate. When contacted by mysterious loner Leslie Vernon, who offers them rare insight into his own murderous activities, the team heads for the small town of Glen Echo, where an all-new rampage is about to take place. Using shots bearing the "University News" stamp at first, the film quickly shifts gears and uses the rushes taken by the young filmmakers to narrate their story. That's when we are introduced to charismatic newcomer (and stage actor) Nathan Baesel, who plays Leslie Vernon, the mild-mannered psycho whom we will follow through his elaborate massacre prep.

Kane Hodder as an "Elm Street Resident": Glosserman
cleverly introduces a world in which slashers are real.

Leslie is a cool guy with smarts to boot. He loves turtles and is revealed to be a very dedicated professional on his way to becoming another legendary slasher. When asked if his in-depth study of the heavy reference manuals found in his library is job-related, Leslie chuckles and declares: "I wouldn't recommend reading Grey's Anatomy for kicks". If that joke is lost on the uneasy reporter that is Taylor, it is certainly not lost on us, and thus the narrative takes hold, with candid Taylor and the viewer sitting at opposite sides of the spectrum. Leslie's next moves are all obligatory as we assist him in picking out a target group of victims, a convenient location where to massacre them and a proper anchor for his legend. Thanks to a well-rounded cast of supporting characters, including a retired slasher (Scott Wilson) and his survivor girlfriend, a Loomis-like investigator played by Robert Englund and an elderly librarian played by Zelda Rubinstein, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fall into place, making the prelude to a gory massacre a wholly enjoyable, convivial experience. Not realizing what they're truly in for, the three reporters partake in the whole operation with a certain measure of glee. But that glee quickly evaporates once the killing starts and they finally see themselves for what they are, namely the willing accomplices of a killer about to slaughter innocent high school students.

While it cleverly dabbles in the common grounds of the slasher sub-genre, thanks in part to a two-tier method of storytelling that mixes subjective shots taken from the reporters' cameras and atmosphere-heavy theatrical shots, the film also covers the academic debate surrounding the legitimacy of the genre as a symbolic mode of representation. But it does so in such a level-headed way as to obliterate the verbose of essayists for the greater satisfaction of the common people. "She's empowering herself with cock", says Leslie of the slasher heroine reaching for a long slashing weapon in one of the casual interviews to which he is subjected. While this is obvious to anyone who has the slightest interest in psychoanalysis, the wording used here brings the entire theory to street level. And it does so not only as a superficial reflection on the sub-genre, but as part of a complex narrative canvas that prefigures the end of the ideological dead-end stemming from rigidly psychoanalytical readings of slasher films. Because while it exposes the mechanics of sexual symbolism within the genre, it does so in regards to a caricature. The symbolic imagery it uses might be quite explicit, such as the alley in the orchard representing the vaginal passage through which the heroine is "born again" (a pun made famous by Peter Jackson in Bad Taste), but it is only so in order to draw attention to the automatic conclusions stemming from the mindless adherence to psychoanalytical interpretation. As such, it is a welcome remedy to the bitter and often self-defeating academic debate concerning the legitimacy of horror.

Through casual discussion, Behind the Mask bares
not only the serial killer, but also the
scholarly detractors of the horror genre.

Obviously, the slasher film is a fairly transparent affair as it proceeds from a set of prefabricated characters and situations, making its dissection a slightly dubious feat. Fortunately, the film finds additional depth in its appraisal of documentary cinema and its crucial ethical implications, especially in regards to non-intervention. Explored earlier in C'est arrivé près de chez vous (1992), another film starring young filmmakers who befriend a vicious serial killer, this idea of non-intervention under fire is constantly relevant here, as Leslie's actions are becoming increasingly reprehensible as the narrative unfolds. That idea has actually obsessed filmmakers since the beginning of the last century, when the first cameras were taken to the battlefields of Europe. Are documentary filmmakers mere witnesses of the action (like the flies on the wall idealized by a certain current of direct cinema) or are they part of it? When given the opportunity to save lives, are they morally obliged to do so, or is their testimony too valuable? In the present context, this question is essential as the need to unbolt the slasher mythos is constantly at odds with the necessity to prevent the slasher's actions. It even provides the crucial plot twist necessary to propel the  narrative into its gory final act. This happens when Leslie slips out of Taylor's frame and murders his first two victims, the muffled moans of which are accompanied on the soundtrack by typically clunky, outrageous stabbing sounds. We don't get to see the actual slashing, but we can imagine it quite easily. At this point is when the film crew finally dissociates itself from Leslie's actions by joining the side of heroes, thus emerging from their stupor and doing "the right thing". Consequently, the film's aesthetics change to accommodate the change in philosophy, dropping the subjective camera for the horror camera, and allowing the film to organically end in true slasher fashion. So the film ultimately proves to be not only a relevant meditation on both the horror and documentary genres, but a brilliant intertextual interpretation of those two genres. Quite a commendable feat for such a lowbrow effort.

(The following paragraph contains spoilers.)
Brilliant intertextual interpretations aside, the film also makes a revolutionary contribution to the slasher sub-genre by highlighting a typically underplayed aspect thereof, namely the love story between the psychotic killer and the survivor girl, further proving its under-appreciated  tragic nature. Aside from the fact that his mentor, a crotchety retired killer, is living with a loving survivor girl, Leslie's own infatuation with Taylor provides a powerfully endearing ending that seems to redeem the entire sub-genre. Usually, the murderous slasher is a sexually deviant individual plagued by an unhealthy fixation for the female protagonist, his murderous endeavor being a mere last ditch effort to compensate for his sexual shortcomings. But what if that killer was a clever, gallant gentleman with a genuine desire to liberate the heroine? Then, you'd suddenly have a respectable outlet for the unrequited love of inadequate men. Luckily, Leslie is just that kind of killers. In one of the later scenes of the film, he is seen putting the finishing touches on his costume under the watchful eye of an oblivious Taylor. With Midnight, the Stars and You playing on a cranky gramophone in the background, he suddenly starts shedding tears of joy as he envisions the breadth of his final gift to Taylor. Clumsily trying to comfort Leslie, it is her who eventually makes this a truly romantic scene, freezing their wondrous embrace in time. And thus the film introduces a radical new interpretation of the murderous slasher. Desperately infatuated with the survivor girl, he is actually a romantic soul willing to viciously murder people and ultimately sacrifice himself for her sake, allowing her subsequent liberation from the shackles of uncertainty, doubt and fear. This makes him a selfless, noble and eminently tragic character. But most importantly, it makes him something that critics rarely see in him, namely a true lover of women.

What better anchor into the world of horror
than an elderly Zelda Rubinstein? 

Behind the Mask is somewhat of a cool oddity: a clever hybrid of the documentary and horror genres. It was a tough gamble to make, but I must say that director Glosserman passes the test with flying colors. He is obviously a very savvy film connoisseur who perfectly understands the symbolic power of cinema, lovingly framing horror icons Robert Englund and Zelda Rubinstein and combining the main tenets of both genres in an explosion of intellectual brilliance. And despite its scholarly appeal, the result remains sufficiently lowbrow to please any film fan, no matter his personal preferences. A total success by any stretch of the imagination.

4/5  This cleverly self-reflexive documentary slasher should appeal to any film fan, no matter their creed.

Zombie (1979)

Derivative, atrociously dubbed and badly written, but cleverly photographed, with superb makeup and breathtaking location shooting to boot, Zombie is the epitome of Italian exploitation from the late 1970s/early 1980s. It is also one of Lucio Fulci’s most fulfilling, accomplished films. As such, it is greatly deserving of its cult status, which also derives from the presence of two world-famous scenes featuring the full proficiency of both the photography and makeup departments. Of course, the actors are all ineffectual and the cultural lore is quite perplexing, but the terror is undeniably real. And so is the sheer fun that the spectator experiences while sitting through this zany zombie romp, one of the best to ever come out of Europe.

As the film begins, a derelict sailboat is spotted in the New York harbor. This warrants a whole portfolio of shots featuring the boat against some famous backdrops such as the Brooklyn Bridge or the Statue of Liberty. Two coast guards are then commissioned to board the empty vessel and look for survivors. But as they roam its apparently empty bowels, one of them is attacked and bit by an overweight zombie, who takes out a typically large portion of his neck in the process. After shooting down the beast, the remaining officer hauls both the corpse of his colleague and the boat itself back to the mainland for further study. Baffling the police, this mysterious affair soon draws the attention of two particularly adventurous archetypes, a British reporter working in NY and the inquisitive daughter of the boat’s missing proprietor, both of whom quickly decide to team up in order to investigate the old man’s disappearance. This will lead them all the way to a remote Caribbean island where a strange curse plagues the islanders, turning the dead into walking carnivorous abominations.

Fearless extras in full ghoulish makeup
an example of dedication to one's craft.

Released a scant year after Dawn of the Dead (known in Italy as Zombi), this film is an avowed cash-in of Romero’s seminal masterpiece. And while it pales in comparison, Zombie (originally known as Zombi 2) remains a valiant and earnest effort by veteran Fulci. Its premise is actually quite endearing, as we are anxious to know exactly what happened to the crew of the derelict boat and eager to travel the world in search of answers. Of course, it’s quite disappointing to discover that the film eschews any definitive explanation for the outbreak, but the trip itself is well worth the admission price, especially since it also works as an exciting travelogue. Being momentarily shipped to the Caribbean, most of the film's runtime is dedicated to the spectacle of wondrous exotic sights, not the least of which is the nearly nude body of Italian starlet Auretta Gay.

After being offered a ride to the island of Matool by a friendly American couple, protagonists Peter and Anne are subsequently seen cruising in the couple's boat through the clear blue sea, trying to pinpoint the localization of the elusive land mass. That’s where Auretta suddenly decides to indulge in an underwater photo session, removing all her clothes save for a tiny white thong, and donning some light diving equipment. That’s also where the film hits a historical high point thanks to a world-renowned underwater scene, one which gorehounds frequently discuss with reverent awe in their voice. Seamlessly framing the young woman as she probes the ocean floor, navigating through rows of sparkling fish and bright corral reefs, her lovely breasts exposed to the currents, the film goes on to include a unique encounter between a water-bound zombie and a roaming shark, both of which are initially after a bite of Auretta. The interaction between the two predators is not entirely realistic, with the undead creature clumsily groping the shark and spreading red paint over its body, but the underwater photography is breathtaking, with every detail crisper than anything filmed aboveground. The result immediately reminded me of Piranha's wonderful underwater ballet, but with a distinct flavor of Italian self-indulgence, as Eros and Thanatos are excitingly entwined to create an immediate sense of dread from what was initially a scene of beauty. And while it doesn't all make sense, it’s hard not to feel some sort of admiration for the artisans who put such efforts in filming a simple horror sequence for a nutty exploitation effort.

Some more proof of the film's cult potential
by the people at Motifake.com.

Such dedication to one’s craft is present in many other aspects of production, including the work of several extras portraying mere stiffs to be shot down by the protagonists. Covered in heavy makeup and coated with dirt, these extras brave it all to convey a sense of artistry to the depiction of gluttonous ghouls, even the presence of live worms near their eyes and mouths. On the international poster for the film, such a ghoul is prominently displayed, with pockets of worms squirming out of its empty socket and patches of dirt seamlessly sticking to its cranium. Well, there’s a man under all that latex and makeup, one who had to endure the discomforting thought of having a runaway invertebrate fly into his mouth. Such involvement is rare in the field of zombie films, and so is the aesthetic research put on monster design itself. With Romero’s ineffectual blue strollers paling in comparison, one is forced to admire the intricate details that constitute the look of Fulci’s undead. And while some would prefer to highlight the self-defeating nature of a project where more energy is spent on costumes than any form of coherent screenplay, I would rather contend that the costumes’ contribution to the disturbing imagery and overall feeling of the film are more invaluable to Zombie as a genre object than any sort of comprehensive, Cartesian understanding that we might derive from any sort of intricate narrative prowess.

From a technical standpoint, the film makes clever use of the depth of field in its depiction of rampaging antagonistic forces. As such, the showcase of disembodied zombie hands ominously moving in on the protagonists is quite evocative. Fulci’s use of depth hits one particular high note about halfway, providing yet another legendary sequence to horror film history. This scene features a young woman being chased by a zombie through her beachside cottage, ultimately taking shelter behind the locked door of her bedroom. Unfortunately, the thin wooden panels prove not sturdy enough to slow down her assailant, who merely claws his way through, grasping his screaming victim firmly and dragging her face toward a large protruding splinter, eventually plunging it into her eyeball. Using an alternation of subjective and lateral shots, this sequence showcases not only Fulci’s knack for involving spectators into a macabre game of substitution (the subjective shots would’ve been an absolute shoe-in for any 3D production), but also the incredible makeup job involved in creating the illusion of eyeball penetration. Shades of Bunuel’s Un chien andalou are obvious, but the radical update involved in transposing its imagery into the realm of gory spectacle is quite welcome, and so is the renewed relevance it finds as a metaphor of masochistic spectatorial violence.

Zombie is probably due for a 3D re-release...

The subjective frame is also put to good use in showcasing the monsters’ point of view. Notwithstanding the numerous stalker shots taken in and around the island, by then a stale staple of Italian exploitation cinema, it is helpful in portraying the zombies’ awakening from their grave, as the dirt-covered lens seemingly emerges from the ground to frame the cloudy sky above. Such usage of zombie POV is gimmicky, but it helps put a well-needed twist on some overdetermined images of zombie rampage. Finally, the zoom is also quite effective here in that it allows the cautious exploration of space, and the gradual revelation of morbid elements within the frame, most notably the multiplying number of shrouded corpses who start littering the gorgeous scenery as the curse spreads further and further.

Unfortunately, while there is a steady help at the helm, it proceeds from a truly lackluster writing effort. Despite an intriguing premise and a satisfying twist ending, the screenplay is little more than a hollow shell, content as it is with throwing dubious mythological lore and jumbled testimony around in a hopeless bid to make sense of the zombie outbreak. In the end, despite the multiplication of hazy eyewitness accounts, hearsay and the occasional scene entirely devoted to weird science, we are never given any sort of synthetic explanation that would begin to make sense of the events onscreen. This might prove abrasive for whoever would have wished for definite results to Peter and Anne’s investigation, or for any sort of comprehensive understanding of the zombie phenomena. But as it stands, we are merely given insight as to the fleeting moods of several unidimensional characters, flatly portrayed by a cast of unaffected actors from around the world. And while these actors constantly fail to tie us emotionally to the story, the spectacle of their ordeal speaks for itself, making us partake not in an involving narrative, but in a breathtaking and gutsy display of horror.

The dramatic power derived from the film has nothing to do with any sort of narrative prowess, which the screenwriters didn’t care for, but with the sheer power of images. Hence, the sight of corpses wrapped in white shrouds, all lined up in a beachside common grave with bloody bullet holes in their head, proves much more evocative than the characters' multiple, but flat allusions to the curse and its victims. And so does the spectacular finale in which the stranded protagonists take their final stand in a local church, fending off their assailants with surprisingly potent blunt weapons, rifles and Molotov cocktails, which they chuck at zombies who die in fiery theatrics. Hence, the viewer's involvement with the film proceeds not from any emotional attachment to the characters, but with the maddening spectacle of their ordeal, fraught with brutal cannibalistic violence and the grotesque perversions of the human form. In typical Italian fashion, any notion of emotional realism is thus subservient to a highly sensuous, slightly oneiric depiction of horrific events. And while the cheesy orchestral score, by mammoth genre composer and frequent Fulci collaborator Fabio Frizzi, gives some epic breathd to the spectacle, its power of suggestion lies squarely in the images themselves, which pegs the film as a truly transcendent cinematographical endeavor, and not the mere sum of trite tribulations from a wordy screenplay.

Dramatically speaking, the film achieves much greater
results with white shrouds than with any line of dialogue...

In the end, while casual viewers will certainly be underwhelmed by the progression of the protagonists’ investigation into Voodoo lore and the rise of Caribbean undead, Zombie’s potent imagery should keep them titillated throughout. Here, as in most Italian exploitation films from that era, location shooting, makeup, gore effects, music and photography are key to creating affect, which cannot be found in the screenplay alone. The result is a true film experience and an unrestrained example of Mediterannean craftsmanship in the realm of sensuous horror. 

4/5  A perfect example of Italian savoir-faire, this exhilarating, but derivative zombie film compensates for a lackluster screenplay by showcasing some highly evocative, memorable imagery of death and decay.

Tokyo Fist (1995)

I dedicate this review to a friend of mine who would rather see passion at every street corner than having to cope with the banality of everyday life. Being a person of many unfocused desires, a person who yearns for freedom during every minute of every day, it would seem that this friend of mine has chosen a life unfulfilled, and ultimately unsatisfying considering how many barriers have been erected to keep our bodies quarantined in the passionless cubicles of conformity. This proves particularly true in terms amorous, where his pain and unruly passion always seem to give a bitter edge to his bittersweet love stories. After talking to this friend on the phone and receiving some mild complaints about my lack of assiduity in updating the present blog, I felt I had to do a very special review for him. Then I thought of the perfect film to reflect his state of mind. It is a film I saw a while back without being quite able to fully grasp its iconography. But now that I think about my friend, and wish to throw him a thorny life preserver, I start to make sense of all the jumbled celluloid used in making this film. I start to see it almost exactly as I had first wished to see it, as a radical exercise in couple’s therapy. After all, passion will make a couple equally happy and unhappy. Passion is a very fickle thing, and one to create outbursts of affection and outbursts of anger. And while couple life is the focus of countless films, it is usually grounded in dramatic verbose ill-suiting the actual experience of love as a passionate expression of the self. With this film, passion is circumvented in truly filmic terms, and it operates from the very violence at the core of the emotion itself, making it one of the rawest love stories out there. I'm talking of course about Shinya Tsukamoto's Tokyo Fist.

Love hurts: Tsuda and Hizuru remedy their qualms
with a rageous boxing exchange (edited with fierceness
by director Tsukamoto himself)

Love hurts

The film stars somewhat of an impotent everyman called Tsuda, a man whose hold on fiancee Hizuru is actually stronger than he suspects. The two of them met in a bakery, where thoughts of sweets seemed to have encouraged sweet thoughts. They are living together in a diminutive Tokyo apartment when Tsuda makes the mistake of inviting school chum, and semi-professional boxer Kojima to share a drink. The latter immediately becomes infatuated with Hizuru, whom he tries to kiss in a sudden burst of passion (while Tsuda is still at work, earning money for his wife). But she coldly refuses his advance, staying 100% faithful to Tsuda. Right after that, a simple misunderstanding propels the narrative toward the unseen depths of the protagonists' psyche, right into the core of their emotions, into the passionate violence that animates them. When Kojima confesses to Tsuda that his fiancee was "very soft", the everyman starts losing his mind, convinced that his impotence has pushed Hizuru to adultery. And while nothing can be farther from the truth, emotional logic makes it so that Tsuda tries to violently reclaim his "lost" wife, trying to prove his masculinity in the process. Eventually, he ends up alienating her, and sending her over to Kojima, who proves to be equally weak-willed and subservient to an increasingly moody Hizuru. Tsuda then starts training to become a boxer in order to match what he considers to be an over-phallic rival and reclaim his prize by force. But Hizuru won't be taken back by force. Actually, she evolves much more than her male counterparts over the course of the narrative, becoming quite a boxer in the process... In the end, a lot of blood was shed, but only to expose humanity to its intrinsic nature, as an uneven congregation of flesh and raw emotions.

It might not come as a surprise to film buffs, but boxing films are rarely about boxing. The Rocky films for instance, are so excessive in their depiction of fights as to completely, and willingly eschew realism. Fists fly and they land almost every time. The pugilists sustain a murderous amount of blows and come out with cosmetic bruises and cuts. The reason for this is obvious: boxing here is not used as a reality in itself, but as a symbol of the protagonist's resilience and, by extension, the fighting spirit of America. As Sly so eloquently put it in the final chapter of the series (reviewed here): "It ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!". In Tokyo Fist, boxing is used as emotional catharsis. It is a way for the characters to externalize the heated feelings derived from the frustrated love triangle in which they are involved. Coupled with the violence of the editing, the violence of the sport itself becomes a surprisingly raw expression of our basest humanity. That said, the fist thus becomes an unbridled externalization of the emotional self whereas Rocky's bruised midsection served merely as canvas on which to showcase the pain involved in the quest for self-improvement and the showcase of determination.

Tsukamoto as a romantic

While Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tokyo Fist seems to stray away from the cyberpunk roots laid down in Tetsuo: The Iron Man, it merely drops the "cyber" in cyberpunk (read on for details). It is thus an equally fitting addition to his oeuvre insofar as it proves to be yet another materialization of romantic madness. There is no doubt that Tsukamoto is a true romantic at heart, using love as the major driving force behind his hyperkinetic accounts of desperation and hope. And while one might argue that the use of the labyrinthine city, or "metallic" city, is the central leitmotif of his work, I would say that it is merely subservient to the filmic expression of amorous emotions. Thus, both love and the city end up entrapping his characters like so many puppets. And if the city always appear to clamp down on his protagonists, it is their unruly emotions that provide the rhythm at the heart of his narratives. In Tokyo Fist, the oppressive city is relegated to the background (or the foreground, as exemplified by a beautiful shot in which the reflection of a building over the window of his cab entraps the protagonist, effectively entrapping him twice within the frame). And thus the raw emotions of the protagonists take center stage. Well center stage and the backstage as they literally animate the film (through editing).

Although it dwarfs the protagonist, the metallic
city remains in the background

Tsukamoto's films proceed from a powerful form of "emotional realism", opposite of which is the "dramatic realism" of American films. Such a storytelling technique is reminiscent of the Soviet tradition, wherein editing is used not only to create meaning between shots, but to create meaning through rhythm. Here, we have truly a pulse-pounding film in the sense that its rhythm is that of a heartbeat, beating at a normal pace when everything is calm, but alarmingly fast once rage sets in. The addition of loud industrial music only adds power to the depiction of the raw emotions displayed by the characters. The result is a series of aggressive sequences, including several hyperkinetic fights, meant to absorb the viewer right into the film, and make him partake directly into the protagonists' actions, putting him squarely at the center of their resolve. By attacking the senses with an impressionistic flurry of shots, Tokyo Fist will not leave the viewer unscathed. And in the end, he will feel all the bruises and cuts experienced by the protagonists as if they were his own, wondering if the boiling blood in his veins is about to burst out and rain down on the walls.

Non-cyber punk
Now is time to ask a question which I think is pertinent to our analysis of Tokyo Fist as a gutsy, visceral film. That question is the following: what happens to cyberpunk when it is deprived of its cybernetic element? The answer is quite simple: there remains punk. But what is punk? For the sake of argument, let us posit a working definition centered on the pursuit of authenticity. After all, "punk ain't no religious cult. Punk means thinking for yourself". But authenticity runs much deeper than ideas. It runs right down to the unsightly guts and gut feelings which we try so desperately to hide. In so many words, punk is the unbridled expression of the primordial humanity which we restrain through social mores. This unbridled expression of the visceral self is perhaps best exemplified by the infamous incident involving the Sex Pistols boarding a Holland-bound plane at the Heathrow Airport. Some observers referred to this as the “spitting incident at Heathrow”, as members of the band reportedly spat on passengers and airport officials. According to the The Guardian, dated January 7th 1977, one of them is even said to have vomited (on whom or what is not specified). Just like the raw words that came out of the Sex Pistols’ mouths and which tremendously offended the uptight British society, their unsightly spit (and vomit) were also instruments of their radical art, or aspects of the “raw” humanity that lurked behind the layer of civility which we entertain as our true “human” face. But humanity knows better than to be shackled by good mores as it is always ready to burst out and obliterate face with bowelfuls of repulsive, semi-liquid expressions of itself. That said, if spit and vomit exist as the necessary underside of human existence, so too does violence exist as the necessary underside of romance, seeing how our deepest emotions are entangled with our basest "flesh" components. Evidently, flowers and gift-wrapped diamonds might seem like the only true expression of love to those who think they can transcend the flesh, but in the end, everybody knows that they aren’t. Love is a powerful emotion, and as such, it cannot elude the utter violence of its rawest expression. Jealousy, pain, uncertainty, but also tearful joy, exhilaration and sexual bliss: these are the things that love is truly about. Love is both crap and the rose that's blooming out of that crap insofar as it causes pain, but not without offering a way to transcend that pain. Love is equally enslaving as it is liberating. And Tokyo Fist perfectly captures that equivalence by entrapping his characters in a endless waltz of violence that eventually liberates them through the understanding of one's self as a being of passion that will experience equally low lows as high highs insofar as one embraces the dictates of that passion. By further equating bloodletting with the expression of raw emotions, Tsukamoto makes it a point to convey the expression of humanity in true punk fashion.

Unrestrained humanity gushing out of the passionate man:
director Tsukamoto is crying blood in Tokyo Fist

During the credits, just before the title appears, one can notice a distinctly animated layer of flesh rippling away from the center toward the edges of the frame. Symbolically, the film thus emerges out of the director's guts in a direct transfer to the screen. His starring in the film is not a coincidence either as we understand that the present enterprise comes straight from the heart, becoming in the process of its elaboration a cathartic release for the author. And if his sweat is involved in making the film per se, so his is lifeblood, which we see gushing out of his body on several occasions in a bid to reveal what the narrative is really about, namely the raw expression of humanity. The bruised face of Kojima after the final boxing match is yet another reminder of what lies beneath sport as an orderly activity. The blood that spurts out abundantly from his face marks the intensity of his new resolve, born out of the violence inherent to his confrontation with Tsuda and Hizuru. It represents the epitome of self-achievement in the sense that it allows Kojima to get a tangible sense of his own self, the limits thereof and the passion that erupts from every of his pores (as represented by the blood itself). Yet, Kojima and Tsuda are not the only ones to get acquainted with the possibilities of their inner self. Hizuru also gets a sense of self through self-mutilation. Her adorning intrusive jewelry embroidered directly into her flesh is itself an experience in recognizing one's own corporeality (read corpo-reality). Hence, the puncturing of one's flesh, the bleeding, the pain, all those things against which we try to protect ourselves are but the inner side of our rawest emotions, which we also strive to hide under the masks (and suits) of civility. After all, very few people opt for passion in their daily life, judging that it is too powerful an emotion to master. And so too do people try to keep their bodily fluids inside, save for that one act during which humans become akin to beasts and indulge in their most primary function. Passion can bleed you dry, but it can also make you closer to your true self than anything else. And it is almost impossible to strike a balance between the empowering aspects of passion and its darker aspects. Fortunately, the film addresses this issue head-on, without fussing over silly dramatic details.

Tokyo Fist is a constant clash, a clash between the city and the individual, a clash between outward civility and inner chaos, between rage and restraint, between sights and sounds, between man and woman. And from that clash emerges two invaluable things: the raw expressive power of cinema used as catharsis for the author, and the crucial realization of our hidden humanity. Truly, Tsukamoto's film is a powerhouse of unrestrained emotions and one of the most accurate depiction of a true love story out there. A considerable achievement for one of the best contemporary Japanese filmmakers.


4/5 A masterpiece of expressive art that reaches deep into the heart of humanity to salvage our most powerful emotions. A love story as violent and unforgiving as any you will experience under the sign of passion.

Another Earth (2011)

Imagination doesn't cost a penny: Another Earth

Young star and co-writer Brit Marling teams up with ex-boyfriend director, and fellow writer Mike Cahill to create somewhat of a rare gem: an effective, low-budget sci-fi film relying on human emotions rather than dry philosophical ideas to fuel its thesis. The result is a memorable film that will leave you shaken up, and one of the finest examples of indie cinema's power to capture the most intimate, and thus most relevant aspects of life. It is also a welcome addition to the sci-fi genre, which has almost vanished from contemporary screens, except in various truncated or diluted forms. Using the multiverse theory, the film questions the perennity of human mistakes and the dynamics of atonement and forgiveness as two complementary processes.

The protagonist of Another Earth is a brilliant young woman who commits an unforgivable act of vehicular manslaughter during a minute, drunken moment of inattention. Following a party thrown to celebrate her induction at the M.I.T., Rhoda takes her car home and inadvertently crashes into a BMW driven by renowned composer John Burroughs, killing his wife and son, while leaving the poor man in a coma. She draws four years in prison for this, during which the world becomes increasingly interested in the most recent astrological find, Earth 2, a mirror copy of the blue planet hanging in the sky as a tantalizing promise of hope. On its alien surface, speculation has it that another seven billion souls are living as we do, sharing our names and backgrounds while dwelling in mirror cities. The very find of Earth 2 coincides with the night of the crash, and it is actually the spectacle thereof which has caused Rhoda to stare away from the road for an instant, thus destroying the four lives of Burroughs, his wife, his son, and herself.

Unfortunately for physics-buff Rhoda, her Cartesian mind has no interest for Earth 2 after four years in jail but as an hypothetical source of atonement. You see, if one believes that their exact double lives on the mirror planet, sharing their name, appearance, background and so forth, one is also entitled to believe that a discrepancy might arise regarding the question of life choices. After all, aren't we, parental and social influences aside, simply the sum of the choices we have made through the years? For better or for worse, haven't we defined ourselves beyond the scope of our natural traits only by being cowardly at times and courageous at other times? To Rhoda, this question is of particular relevance. After all, what would be her life if she hadn't killed? What if the other Earth hadn't distracted her during that fatal moment four years before? Where would she be today? At M.I.T.? Probably. And if so, would she be close to solving the mystery of the obsessive doppelganger? At any rate, she certainly wouldn't be cleaning for a living, which she decides to do after hard time in jail has made her a social pariah. But then again, she wouldn't have the chance to cross paths with Burroughs either, and try to find atonement in the real world, while struggling with the raw emotions necessary for one to become truly human.

Aren't we the sum of our life choices?

Curious about the fate of her victim, Rhoda Google-searches him (how contemporary!) and learns of his address. And so, she works up the courage to contact him and ask for forgiveness. But when she is finally faced with the man, and the derelict looks he harbors, she is overwhelmed and quickly decides on a subterfuge to explain her visit. Seeing how she is a professional maid, she offers the ill-organized widow a highly dubious "trial cleaning". Right after rebuking her, Burroughs eventually accepts the proposal, on account of its gratuity, opening his home, and his secrets, to Rhoda. If the reigning disorder is any indication of the man's shattered resolve, things are very far from hunky-dory. And so, the young woman sets to work, literally and metaphorically putting order back into his life. To put it another way, she tries to give him back his life in exchange of her own, which she has abandoned after joining the caste of ex-cons.

That said, her ex-con status unlocks another narrative path when she decides to enter a contest to win a trip to Earth 2 as part of a leisurely trip organized by an opportunistic transport company. The rules are simple. All she has to do is write a 500-word essay, convincing said transport company that she is an ideal candidate for the trip. Romanticizing herself a social undesirable like the whores and criminals who crossed the Atlantic toward the New World, she claims to be a perfectly expandable crew member. As the story unfolds, this and the other narrative paths established earlier will converge to form a surprisingly coherent whole, one that leaves just the right amount of unanswered questions so as to stimulate the viewer while managing not to alienate him.

The screenplay contains many "what ifs" as does the imperfect human soul, devoured by nostalgia and grief. But as these questions multiply, we realize that they all bear the same answer, an earthly answer, anchored in the tangible world we experience everyday and delineated, as all things earthly, by the spectrum of human emotions. Earth 2 can thus be understood as nothing more than a wish distracting one from the more concrete, more real aspects of life. After all, asking "what if" only amounts to wishful thinking and it never helps one solve the problems ahead of him. That said, there is only one way to go and it is forward, not backward or sideways. The only forks in the road that one should contemplate are the ones ahead. Previous ones, the choice of an occupation, the choice of a mate or the choice of driving drunk for example, have since been crystallized into static memories. And instead of dwelling on these memories, one should use the emotional content therein as a driving force and shed the hypothetical "what ifs" embodied by the multiverse theory.

After all, one has but one life to live, and this is how the two protagonists eventually make sense of human existence, helping each other in times of need to the fullest extent allowed by their flaws and character limitations. Painful memories and the desire to overcome those memories is what fuels them, allowing them to grow beyond their immediate feelings into the more noble realm of human virtues. Thus, forgiveness and atonement become more than "what ifs". They become a beautiful reality as two complementary processes involving two complementary beings whose lives are intertwined both in love and hate and whose bodies and minds are probed and felt by each other in a celebrated sense of communion, which makes Another Earth one of the most relevant, most touching films I have seen this year at Fantasia.

The intimate camera perfectly delineates the Earthly
nature of the drama at hand

Narratively, the film achieves the crucial task of infusing the sci-fi premise with palpable human drama, without which the genre is no less sterile than an action film without action. This is achieved through the issues delineated by the screenplay, as well as through the sense of immediacy brought forward by the clinging hand-held camera. Oftentimes, it transforms immediacy into urgency, such as when it frames Rhoda's pale skin in close-up as she bares her body and lies down in the snow in order to die the frigid death she thinks she deserves. Drama is multiplied tenfold by the crisp, inhospitable aspect of the snow against her fragile skin as captured by the prying eye of the lens. Then there is that love scene, or the sight of Rhoda's finger tapping on a wooden table, all little things on which the camera focuses, giving the viewer the impression that there is no space between life as they experience it everyday and life as it is captured onscreen.

And while the camera frames details in order to better flesh out the tangible reality of the narrative, so too does the screenplay uses everyday details to seamlessly integrate the sci-fi elements within said narrative. To that effect, the film contains a blabbermouth DJ, who comments mundanely about the discovery of Earth 2, as if it were no more than a traffic incident. Then, there is that wonderful scene in which a woman scientist tries to make contact with the not-so-distant planet, managing to reach another woman scientist whom she establishes as a mirror self using a common childhood memory, that of "space berries". If God is in the details, than so is the crafting of an involving sci-fi film. And while the simple use of everyday elements to anchor otherworldly concepts in a readily intelligible reality trumps the recourse to overly elaborate, extravagant devices and situations (such as futuristic space shuttles or apocalyptic disaster scenes), it also allows idea-driven efforts such as Another Earth to bypass budget limitations. That said, a mere imprint of Earth hung in the sky becomes a very powerful narrative device. Actually, it was the sight thereof which sold me to the idea of the film. I mean, here's another hospitable planet in our midst. What does it hold? The dream of any space explorer, or anybody with the slightest inkling of imagination is suddenly realized. That promise alone is enough to warrant the purchase of a ticket. As for the fact that the narrative contained within is just as subtle and involving as that promise, it is almost miraculous.

4/5 Indie cinema at its best: wits defy low production values to create a supremely engrossing sci-fi wonder.

Cannibal Holocaust (1980)

It's been many, many, many years now since I first heard about the legendary Cannibal Holocaust. I must've been no more than twelve when I was introduced to enthusiastic reviews praising it as one of the most shocking, but also one of the most important horror films of all times. For long, it was inscribed on my wish list in golden, cursive letters and all of its nastier bits were imprinted in my mind like the hypothetical Christmas gifts of an over-imaginative child. Inspired only by vague descriptions, I had imagined the turtle scene and the emasculation scene in vivid details, making them an almost tangible part of my global film culture.

If it's been years since I've first heard about Cannibal Holocaust, it's been only days since I first saw it. Other than the film's relative rarity, the main reason why I had steered clear until now was Umberto Lenzi's Cannibal ferox (1981), which was (wrongfully) heralded as "the most violent movie ever made" and often considered a companion piece to Deodato's film (with which it shares a similar premise). Before I saw it, I was exalted with anticipation. I had even convinced a friend to watch it along, applauding myself for what I thought would gross him out of his mind. But soon after the film started, boredom was our only companion in the depths of the Amazonian jungle. This left a very bitter taste in my mouth, one that would grow into unjustified disdain for all Italian cannibal films.

This just goes to show that every film is in island, or an isolated entity. Even when bound by genre, one film can always surpass its kin by either creativity, intelligence or sheer passion. The truth of the matter is, Cannibal Holocaust not only surpasses ferox by a great margin, it also surpasses the majority of horror films from the 80s. It is a true classic. It grips your balls and it grips your mind while boasting a very relevant message about the nature of televisual images and the monstrosity of colonialism, a message not limited to the "pie-faced attempts at morality" contained in the dialogue but nestling rather in the brilliantly layered storytelling structure.

But despite all of these qualities, the most simple explanation for the film's success is the most visceral one, namely its showcasing of grippingly realistic images depicting extreme acts of cruelty, most notable of which is the live slaughter of a turtle whose head is severed, than all of its limbs and majestic shell. These are images that you will hardly be able to shake off from your feverish mind, let alone see again in a contemporary film. Here, and only here is where cinema shows you its raw, unmitigated power.

This here is real turtle flesh, folks. And believe me,

you've never seen it so raw...

Although many fans and naysayers alike tend to focus on the film's nastiness and its shock value, I found with great surprise that its relevance lied somewhere else entirely. I knew everything about the turtle scene and the re-cut version of the film wherein all animal cruelty has been excised (which is absurd considering the exploitative nature of the film and its intrinsic critique of the extremes of documentary cinema). I knew about the emasculation scene, the rape scene and even the un-filmed piranha scene, which are considered by many international observers to be the main staples of the film. Yet, I had never heard about the very worst scenes of the film, the ones containing extreme images of colonialist violence. You see, the film is an explicit critique of the sensationalist nature of contemporary media, but it is an even more potent critique of colonialism. Let us simply consider the synopsis of the film and its central opposition between the scholarly protagonist and the young documentarists whose work he is trying to reclaim from the jungle.

We are first introduced to the work of Alan Yates via a TV report informing us of his disappearance. It seems that Yates and his crew of fairly respected documentarists were attempting what no man has ever achieved with success, namely documenting the lives of "primitive" cannibals from the Amazonian region know as the Green Inferno, when they all disappeared without a trace. The TV report then proceeds to inform us that a new expedition is now being put together in order to find out what happened to Yates and crew. This expedition is to be led by New York anthropologist Harold Monroe (Robert Kerman), whom we are told has already been involved in the field study of many "primitive" races around the world.

The first half of the film chronicles the journey of Professor Monroe into the heart of the Green Inferno using an invisible cinematic apparatus. Although this section contains plenty of suspenseful moments pertaining to the uneasy relationship between Monroe, his two guides (a savvy, gun-totting, coke-snorting though guy and a Native youth) and the indigenous populations of cannibals, it constitutes the most conventional portion of the film. Eventually, Monroe finds a gruesome bone sculpture made with the remnants of Yates and crew. Not much later, he also finds their film canisters, neatly hung on a vine in the camp of the "tree people".

The second half of the film begins with the return of these canisters to New York, and from there begins the complex exposition of Alan Yates' crimes and those of media concerns wishing to use his footage to secure the spectatorship of thrill-seeking North Americans. Not unlike Michael Moore, Yates is more of a showman than a true documentarist. He is one to create the reality which he films instead of merely documenting it, or commenting on it. This is made explicit early in the second part when one of his producers shows Monroe footage of African army men shooting at blindfolded civilians, telling him that this was a set-up arranged by Yates. Obviously, the footage shot within the Green Inferno is likewise dishonest. More than dishonest, it is actually horrific. It shows the documentarists indulging in repulsive acts of colonialist violence, setting the huts of natives afire, killing their livestock, raping their women... What we find out from this material is not the barbarity of primitives, but the barbarity of contemporary men. We also find out that the deaths of Yates and crew is mere retribution for the heinous acts of which they are guilty. The unveiling of these acts is made under the gaze of Monroe and the TV producers who wish to broadcast the footage for mass entertainment and this leads to a heated debate about the irresponsible sensationalism of contemporary media.

Far from simply justifying the first act (wherein the goal is to bring home Yates' footage), the second act also manages to successfully superpose many levels of storytelling (the traditional exposition of Professor Monroe's actions shot with an invisible camera, the documentary-like interviews of the deceased's relatives shot with a TV camera and the the found footage from Yates' expedition, shot with two different hand-held cameras who constantly complement each other's work), creating in the process a supremely relevant, self-reflexive meditation on the nature of truth when crystalized by the camera. That said, the onscreen slaughter of a beautiful turtle is crucial in creating the affect necessary to make you question the boundaries of documentary filmmaking. As for the human deaths, the cinéma vérité style makes them more than carefully-staged events, closely likening them to snuff, which has furthered helped Cannibal Holocaust garner international attention and shake the belief systems of many serious critics, which is quite an achievement considering that this was originally intended as merely a grindhouse film.

When in Rome...

At the heart of the film lies a clash of ideologies regarding the etiquette of world exploration. Whereas Monroe advocates quiet observation, then respectful emulation of his Amazonian hosts, acting like a deferent guest, the young documentarists rather see themselves as the masters in occupied land. The colonialist violence they thus perpetrate is what I consider to be the film's most horrific aspect.

Here are Cortezian conquerors irrupting into a village within the Green Inferno, the very same village wherein Monroe and his two guides first made contact with the locals, and scaring away the villagers with their rifles, kicking and shooting a small pig tethered to a pole, setting huts afire, forcing people inside at gunpoint and finally, fucking triumphantly on the charred remains. For one, I believe that the sex scene involving Alan and Faye was the most disturbing bit in the entire film for it perfectly exemplifies the unfathomable perversity of the conquering spirit. Fucking on the floor of a hut you have just torched in front of the natives you just made homeless: you can hardly do worse than that. Well... you can gang-rape a native girl and then laugh when you see her entire body impaled on a post.

While their awfulness fluctuates, all of these crimes are inscribed within the colonialist mindset warranted by the presupposition of superiority deriving from technological advancement. When Alan boasts that it is the law of the jungle that compels him and his crew to do violence on the "weaker" natives, he is merely drawing on the flawed logic of conquistadores to justify his genocidal rights. The film's critique of sensationalism in the media may be more explicit, but its critique of colonialism is much more poignant. The documentarists depicted here have not merely taken what they wanted out of the Amazonian people, they have ridiculed their culture and humiliated them in the process by displaying utterly excessive force. So when Professor Monroe utters the closing line of the film to the effect that we are the real cannibals, I took that as a condemnation of the colonialist spirit at work in Alan Yates' films, that is the strongly-held belief that civilized Whites are necessarily superior to other "races". As if tagging someone as primitive instantly gave you a right over his life. As if carrying weapons and technology that made you god-like in appearance actually gave you the rights of gods. We are the cannibals for colonialism is the ultimate act of savagery and we are all guilty of it, everyday. We may not have sinked machetes into their skulls and eaten their guts, but we have cannibalized many foreigners nonetheless. First and foremost, we did so by manipulating their image, making them out to be somewhat "lesser" than us, as exemplified here. Then, we have subsequently imposed our economic and cultural hegemony on the basis of that conclusion, validating our actions through an illusory superiority.

Other than Monroe's witty commentary, the final shot contains another element of interest to the acute observer: the logo on the great big truck passing behind the Professor is strangely similar to the tribal marking seen earlier on the neck of a native girl. This also goes to show that we too are barbaric in our insistence on graphic markings showing one's standing within society. Only ours our corporate logos with which we dress ourselves, content that we are to own such or such brand of clothing. This pertains also to our cannibalizing hegemony since these symbols of prestige are often generated by the labor of enslaved foreigners against which we do violence on a daily basis, even from the comfort and apparent normality of our homes. What if in turn, as Monroe suggests to a self-satisfied TV exec, the "primitives" would enter our homes and dictate their laws? The question is obvious, but what if the shoe was on the other foot? Could we consider slave drivers to be anything other than barbaric?

Alan Yates (Carl Gabriel Yorke) definitely makes it in my short list of

top film villains. Here, he justifies colonialist violence by alluding to

the law of the jungle

"We are the cannibals" also pertains to our devouring the misery of others as entertainment. This apparently simplistic assertion, which could be understood as a mere critique of macabre news briefs, actually reveals primordial concerns about the ethics of documentary filmmaking. That said, Cannibal Holocaust tackles two crucial questions that have obsessed film commentators since the days of Robert Flaherty: the question of non-intervention and that of "staged truth".

The former question pertains to the inaction of the documentarist who detaches himself from horrific events by hiding behind the camera. In the present film, we see Alan and crew witnessing the burial of a newborn baby and the execution of his mother. Is their inaction a form of complicity in the events depicted? If you won't even consider this question under the present circumstances, consider this: a war journalist catching the wounding of fellow soldiers on tape. Must he drop his camera to lend a hand or must he continue filming, burshing thus a fairer portrait of war? If he continues filming, isn't he cannibalizing his felled comrades, using their individual plights as mere episodes in the drama of war? If you consider that sensationalist footage necessarily involves some sort of live misfortune bestowed on fellow human beings, isn't the very essence of sensationalism questionable? And isn't our wanting to see sensationalist footage akin to a death sentence made in the name of entertainment? If we come back to the example of the war journalist, which is a classic example in the appraisal of documentary ethics, we find that non-intervention can actually benefit truth in the sense that slow, painful death is a truth of war that needs to be captured and exposed for what it is, namely an unspeakable horror that needs never be reproduced. But the problem with the doctrine of sensationalism is that it benefits only the immediate sensibility of viewers in a bid to keep them tuned in. Truth is merely instrumental in the process and this tends to devaluate human life a great deal. If the capture of live deaths does not help prevent further deaths, but rather exists only to give nihilistic North-Americans a kick, then we're in a shitty state of affairs is what the film is trying to say.

As for the question concerning the manipulation of truth, it is also tied to sensationalism insofar as it helps channel the interest and opinions of viewers through shock. The scene wherein we see African militaries executing civilians plainly exposes the unethical nature of documentary filmmaking with an agenda. Québécois filmmakers have coined the term "assumed subjectivity" to describe how documentaries necessary reflect their makers' preferences in terms of framing and editing. That said, every documentary necessarily reflect its maker's outlook on life. But it is one thing to interpret the material at hand. Staging events is quite another. One involves simply a passionate opinion, while the other involves lying. Of course, utilitarians will tell you that lying is acceptable insofar as it benefits a good cause. But such logic is quite dangerous if you consider that the definition of "a good cause" varies tremendously from one individual to the other. After all, even Hitler was fighting for the "good cause"... but it turns out that this good cause was the extermination of Jews.

Crude political analogies aside, documentary filmmaking should be akin to science. Like a scientist, a documentarist should not have a preconceived idea about the material he is about to film. Of course, he is entitled to an opinion, which is what everybody has in regards to every possible topic. What he shouldn't have are inflexible biases and foregone conclusions. If a scientist conducts a study, he should never disregard any results on the basis of personal bias. Likewise, the ideal documentarist is one who forges his opinion as reality slowly reveals its nature in front of his lens. He must approach reality with initial candor, and not force reality to fit his agenda.

Many of the American and Anglo-Canadian representatives of direct cinema believed the ideal of documentary filmmaking to be "fly on the wall"-type observation. No intervention, just observation. The rationale behind this is that truth will reveal itself to all individual viewers in many varied forms. Truth is polymorphous, not unique. Hence, it cannot fit an agenda. This is what these idealistic pioneers believed. And these people here find reflection in the character of Harold Monroe, who, contrarily to Yates, favors observation and quiet awe to boisterous intervention and opportunistic lies. As for Yates, he rather belongs with the showmen, or people using the documentary medium to help sell their own brand of truth. Most famous of them is Michael Moore, the leftist answer to the swarming conservative pundits, the Democratic Rush Limbaugh. Here is a man who makes a mockery of documentary filmmaking, especially in the sense that it was understood by the purists from the 50s and 60s.

Clearly, Moore is not a man of observation. He is a man of action. While that may be great for those who believe that the Left truly needs an impetuous strongman, it is not for those who cherish documentary cinema for what it is, namely a documentation of reality. Aside from cramming tear-inducing music, flamboyant theatrics and his own personal (and very effective) brand of fake whimsical candor into his films, he also disseminates half-truths and bare-faced lies... as if manipulation alone was not enough.

For one, I was fooled by Bowling for Columbine. But as soon as he crossed the border in Sicko, Moore brazenly entered familiar territory and that's when the mask fell off. I was appalled to see how he depicted health care in Canada. Health care in Canada, especially in Quebec, is hell! The system is grossly underfunded and incredibly understaffed despite the ample participation of every single taxpayer in the country. If you want to wait in the ER for 22 hours just to have three stitches done, then come to Quebec. Of course, this is the way we like it here. We like to know that we won't ruin ourselves if we get sick and we like to know that all of our neighbors share the same coverage. This is what Moore should've focused on. Instead, he decides to make Canada look like health care Heaven, which is a bold-faced lie.

I argued extensively with a friend about this issue but she wouldn't budge. According to her, the end justifies the means and thus lying is okay, as long as it conveys "the right message". Again, "the right message" is whatever anybody wants it to be. It can be mere spectacle, like the TV execs from Cannibal Holocaust wished. "The footage is unedited!", they tell Monroe as if such a consideration could justify the presentation of Yates' footage as documentary truth. What Deodato tells us here is that the news media have no use for the truth unless it is a by-product of agenda-setting and ratings-roofing sensationalism.

He also warns us about the suggestive power of manipulative images by highlighting the difference between Alan Yates as framed by TV cameras and the real Alan Yates revealed by his own footage. According to the opening TV report, he is a nice, friendly guy, which is how all showmen appear to be, given a little help by the studio heads who want to cash in on their power of attraction. But this is not at all the real Alan Yates, it is merely the Alan Yates that the studio heads want us to see, in order to better sell his footage later on. At first, we are all fooled by these images and we immediately suspect foul play from the "primitives", not from Yates. Thus, we too become the victims of TV and its version of truth, which we mechanically believe through years of conditioning.

Whereas Harold Monroe is more akin to D.A. Pennebaker,

Alan Yates would be Michael Moore

Despite its obvious superiority to most films of its ilk, Cannibal Holocaust has garnered a lot of bad press throughout the years, most of it pertaining only to dubious moral appraisals thereof. One of the funny things about mainstream film critique is that while most exploitation films are systematically dismissed, overlooked or discredited for what they are, any successful title whose influence exceeds the third run circuit will get a fairly different treatment. It will immediately come under severe scrutiny by the very same critics who would have dismissed its existence had it been contrived to the grindhouse.

In order to become prey to criticism, the successful exploitation film is instantly interpreted as something more than what it is by nature. And thus, it is reviewed as a serious, A-list film. In the case of Cannibal Holocaust, many of its detractors have pointed out the dubious morality derived from its use of violence to condemn violence and they did so without even considering the inherent contradiction in critiquing the immorality of a film which is immoral in nature. Hence, people have wrongly tagged it as a moralistic film containing exploitative violence whereas it is actually an exploitative film containing a moral, which is completely different. Criticizing Cannibal Holocaust for its exploitative violence is just like criticizing a porno film for its explicit depiction of sexuality.

Cannibal Holocaust is an exploitation film. Plain and simple. It was originally made with the sole purpose of showing graphic violence and sexuality in the tradition of other low-budget Italian cannibal films that have gotten much less publicity despite similar M.O.s. The only thing that seems to distinguish Deodato's classic film is the presence of a moral, which is what has pissed people off the most. According to bourgeois sensibilities, films of this ilk shouldn't even aspire to higher moral ideals since filth is filth is filth. For one, I believe that if an exploitation film contains social criticism, this should be considered a plus. Here, it proves that Deodato went above and beyond the call of duty and into the territory of higher art. I just wish that the snooty reviewers who analyzed his films as they would've Citizen Kane (1941) would simply think about the absurdity of doing so. I mean, haven't the detractors of Cannibal Holocaust ever watched a porno? If so, I wonder if they were angered by the lack of morality therein... and I wonder if this prevented them from jerking off to it.

What further pisses me off is the double standard at work here. While pie-faced moralism is the norm in many other genres, it is considered de facto to be incompatible with the horror genre. A lot of people seem to believe that you cannot condemn violence by showing violence, which is untrue. Just think about it with calm: if a director tries to repulse you with violence, which is the goal of horror, then he is not advocating violence. He is showing it to be repulsive. What's more is that most of the violence in Cannibal Holocaust is contextualized. The maiming of animals is done either for nutritional purposes or for protection, while the violence exerted by the cannibals is either ritualistic or defensive. As for the repulsive acts perpetrated by Yates and crew, they constitute the centerpiece of narrative construction. They are slowly revealed, with inserted commentaries and debates as to their unethical nature.

If you can't stomach animal "cruelty", then I doubt you're part of the target audience to begin with. But if you want to complain, go right ahead. You might have an argument in saying that entertainment cannot possibly validate the brutal slaughter of animals. Conversely, I believe that the death of those animals actually strengthens the main point of the film concerning human deaths as source of entertainment. Besides, these deaths greatly help consolidate the overall realism of the film, which further helps validate that point. Although I don't agree, I must admit that the doctrine vying for the right to life of animals over the needs of cinema is perfectly sound. And to its advocates, Deodato has made amend, stating in a 2000 interview linked to the release of the Grindhouse DVD, that killing animals was a stupid mistake. Personally, I think this is one of those fortunate mistakes that have enlightened film history, such as the inclusion of the impromptu line, "Here's looking at you, kid" in the final cut of Casablanca. But seeing the intense heat under which the film has come throughout the years, I will paraphrase Leone in order to best explain the situation. After seeing the Italian premiere of the film, the famous director of Once Upon a Time in the West is reputed to have written Deodato a letter containing the following comment: "Dear Ruggero, what a movie! The second part is a masterpiece of cinematographic realism, but everything seems so real that I think you will get in trouble with all the world". As stated by Leone, realism has indeed put Deodato in trouble, but at the same time, it has given him international recognition, proving once more that history is made by the rebels who will not shy away from rattling the foundations of received ideas.

Cannibal Holocaust's Amazonian jungle is not a paper-

mâché construct with brown tap-water running through

No matter what bias you may entertain toward the film, I'm sure you can grant it certain obvious merits. Cannibal Holocaust was shot on location in the Amazonian Rainforest. This alone is a sizable achievement. It was shot using a large cast of natives, which is another sizable achievement. This points to some really dedicated filmmakers who literally braved death (in the many forms it takes near the Amazon) to bring you back the images contained in the film. These are no mere sets that you see around the protagonists. There are no leaves tacked to plywood, nor are there rubber snakes being dragged by wires. What you see is real and there is thus real danger within every shot, which greatly heightens the realism of the ensemble to the point where you can hardly distinguish what is true and what is false, allowing Deodato to hammer his main point home with a swing from the mace. The man has made every conceivable effort in the name of cinema, and for this we should celebrate him, not dismiss him on moral grounds. After all, Griffith's Birth of a Nation is still a classic...

There is no contradiction at the heart of Cannibal Holocaust. It is a simply a superior exploitation film that transcends the stream of Italian cannibal films by reflecting on the nature of filmed images. It is not a critique of violence. I repeat, it is not a critique of violence. It is a critique of sensationalism in the news media and of colonialism, two traits that do not characterize the film. The difference between the violence depicted in the film and the violence depicted in the film-within-a-film is that the latter is real. And only as such is it dangerous. You see, genre cinema is a form of entertainment whereas the news media are a source of information. What you see in genre films are thus not lies, they're stories made to thrill you. You can't accuse them of being dishonest. On the other hand, Yates' footage, for which the media are vying, is. By staging events, not only does he misinform the viewers, but he creates full-fledged myths, such as that of cannibals, which Deodato works to deconstruct, defusing in the process the media's hold on our consciousness.

4/5 An historical document, not only in its realism and self-reflexivity, but in the international resonance of its unique message.